It was a quiet day at a tavern in the small farming town of New Ylisstol. A middle aged bartender tended to his glasses while bar patrons enjoyed their drinks. Everyone present was drinking the same white creamy liquid. The bartender was busy trying to wipe stains caused by said drink away from his drinking glasses when he heard the door open. A battered and rugged older man slowly stepped into the tavern and walked towards the bar. The man had disheveled gray hair, though there were a handful of dark blue strands hanging on to their color, and a rough and poorly trimmed beard that covered most of the lower half of his face. The man kept it from being completely unmanageable, but that was the extent of his grooming. His time ravaged skin seemed to want to pull his eyebrows down, giving him the look of a constant glare. The man's face was sunken with deeply ingrained wrinkles, ruining him for any positive emotional expressions. His posture was very straight, and he was fairly toned and muscular, but the man otherwise looked like he was pushing on his mid seventies. His clothes were ragged and unassuming. The only thing notable about them were bandages the man had on his right shoulder, but he was clearly a laborer. It wasn't that unusual for someone like him to be injured. The bartender gave a small smile as he approached.

"Well if it isn't one of my best customers! Mercer, how are you doing, you old scavenger?! How'd the day go? Find anything good?"

Mercer sat himself at the bar. "It wasn't bad actually. Mostly scrap metal, but I also found a broken healing staff. Sold it all for 300 gold."

"That's pretty good. You're a rich man among dirt farmers now, Mercer. What will you do with your fortune?" The bartender jested.

"Just get me a drink."

The bartender took out a bottle of kumis, an alcoholic beverage traditionally made from horse's milk, and handed it to Mercer. He winced at the sight of the drink, but he didn't refrain from taking a deep swig. Mercer recoiled at the taste the entire time, but he continued to drink until the bottle was half empty. The bartender gave him an amused look. "Every time you come here and get a drink, you act like it's vomit, but still you drink it. What's the matter? You don't like Donald's kumis?"

"I hate kumis."

Donald chuckled to himself. "And yet you keep coming back. I have some other kinds of alcohol you know."

"Oh yeah? What's the cheapest?"

"I'll sell you a bottle of beer for 50 gold."

"50 gold! Who are you to charge that much for a damn bottle of beer?!"

"I don't have a choice! This stuff is rare. Ever since the Fell Dragon took over the world, crops just don't grow well anymore. Any kind of alcohol made from plants, which is almost every kind of alcohol, is hard to come by. It gets more expensive every year. Alcoholism isn't a cheap vice, Mercer."

"Yeah, yeah."

"It pays my rent though. As long as there are people, there will be taverns. Speaking of paying my rent, how about you buy that beer? You said you made 300 gold today! You can afford it."

"I can barely stomach this crap anymore." Mercer said as he looked warily at his bottle of kumis. "That's really tempting, but I have to save up. The tithe is due soon. You know what the Grimleal landlords do when people don't pay rent."

"Sure. Have to pay the tithe. I know what that's like."

Mercer and Donald turned when they heard a woman scream. A young woman was trying to free her arm from a young man and his rather forceful advances. "Come on, sweetheart!" The man stated in an attempt at a casual tone. "Don't just leave before we get to know each other! Anyone ever tell you that's rude?" The woman grabbed her drink from a nearby table and splashed it in the man's face. The man finally let go and the woman hurried out of the tavern. He stood there for a few seconds, frustrated and dejected, but he quickly laughed it off and sat at the bar next to Mercer.

The scavenger turned back towards Donald and took a swig of his kumis. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man turning to him. Mercer knew the man would try to talk to someone to cover up his disheartened expression, and he tried very hard to make sure that someone wasn't him. Unfortunately, he was the only other man in the tavern on his own, and the young man decided to engage in the kind of one sided conversation that only benefited the initiator. "Aww, these girls are too uptight, eh? They wouldn't know a good time if it swept them off their feet. I need a new town. Somewhere where the bottles are full and the women are empty."

Mercer sighed and gave the man an unpleasant glare. "It's not the girls that are the problem, kid. It's you."

The young man acted like he wasn't hurt by Mercer's comment, though it was obvious he had actually expected some sympathy. "Oh, that means so much coming from you, old man. When was the last time you were even with a woman? When was the last time you scored?"

Mercer's irritation briefly turned into rage, but he caught himself. "I had a wife and children once, kid. I cared about much more important things than just 'scoring'. When you're older, you'll see how damn stupid you sound right now."

"Whatever, old man. I for one won't be spending tonight alone."

"Keep telling yourself that." Mercer muttered to himself as he took another sip. The young man tapped his hands on his knees, clearly thinking of something else to say to Mercer. He talked a lot about looking for women, but he really seemed to want any kind of companionship at the moment. Much to his own chagrin, Mercer was the best he had.

"So uh… wife and kids, old man?"

Mercer slowly turned to face the young man. "Yeah." He growled.

"That's nice, old man. Everyone in town just knows you as the crazy old bastard who sells scrap metal for a living. Good to know you found someone who could stomach you. What happened to your family anyways? Your kids grow up? Your wife leave you for a less insane man?"

Again Mercer almost snapped at the young man, but he suppressed his rage. "Murdered."

The young man was briefly taken aback. "Oh. I-I'm sorry. That must have been rough on your kids."

"They died too. Same time."

The young man was silent for some time, but to Mercer's frustration he decided to speak up again. "My name is Conrad. What's yours?"

"Mercer."

"Nice to talk to you, Mercer."

"Hey Conrad, whatever you were planning on doing to that lady back there? Why don't you go do that to yourself."

Conrad sighed. "Prick."

The conversation between the two was interrupted as a heavily armed man burst into the tavern. Donald glanced up and prepared to yell at him, but he went silent as soon as he realized who it was. The man wore a full set of plate armor under black robes, making him look like a cross between a knight and a dark mage. A levin sword was menacingly sheathed at his side, and any number of tomes could have been concealed within the robes. The man himself was dark skinned with long jet black hair braided into dreadlocks running along the back of his head. Most significantly, a purple mark of Grima was tattooed right on the man's forehead. His affiliation would be clear even if he wasn't already well known by the townspeople.

Strangely enough, a little girl seemed to be accompanying him. "Which one of you is Conrad?!" He barked. A number of people in the tavern pointed towards the young man seated beside Mercer. Conrad buried himself in his drink, and by some miracle the armed man still didn't notice him. Unfortunately, the little girl walked up to Conrad and innocently tugged on his pants, not understanding when Conrad tried to shoo her away. The man noticed and walked towards him. "Well, well. If it isn't Conrad. Conrad of New Ylisstol."

"Uh… heh. W-what are you doing with my daughter?!"

"I went to your house to find you, but you weren't home. Your little girl was all by herself. That's not responsible parenting."

"I had a babysitter!"

"Come to think of it, a young woman did leave in a hurry when I got there. I guess she was smart enough to see what was coming. You know what else is irresponsible parenting, Conrad?"

Conrad looked at his feet. "Not paying the rent?" He said sheepishly.

"The tithe. Don't undermine its importance by calling it rent." The man grabbed Conrad by the hair and forced his head up. "I am an arm of God, not some petty landlord."

"What's the difference." Mercer grumbled to himself. Donald shot him a look, implying as much as he could that he shouldn't have said anything, but it was too late. Conrad's visitor focused on Mercer instead.

"Well, well. If it isn't the town drunk."

Mercer sighed and turned to face him. "Adjudicator Courtney."

Courtney gave a thuggish grin as he obnoxiously put his arm around Mercer and leaned into him. "How's it going, old man? Staying out of trouble."

"Yeah." He snarled in response. Courtney didn't take it well.

"There's something about you, Mercer. Something I can't quite put my finger on. I can just feel it every time I see you. I feel like you're a man that's… gotten away with something."

"I pay the tithe every month, Courtney. I don't want any trouble."

"Adjudicator Courtney." Courtney brought his face just centimeters from Mercer's. "You know, I'm not quite at my monthly quota for, uh, what did they call it… common edifications yet. I think I see a heretic. Change my mind."

Mercer sighed. "I apologize, Adjudicator. Hail Grima."

"I didn't quite hear that."

Mercer shook with frustration, but he acquiesced. "Hail… Grima." He repeated, enunciating clearly.

"Hmm… I'm still not convinced."

Donald cleared his throat. "Hey, your holiness, I think you have bigger priorities right now."

"What makes you think you can talk to me like that?!"

Donald simply pointed behind Courtney, confident that the Adjudicator would leave him alone at the sight. Sure enough, another man had entered the building, and tavern patrons leapt from their chairs in shock. Many knelt down, and a few fell on all fours and practically kissed the ground. Some partially did this out genuine faith and deference, and others out of a simple desire to not attract any attention. Either way, all were further motivated by fear. This second man wore elaborate robes of dark purple with golden highlights, and a shimmering gold trimmed cape flowed behind him as he walked. The man himself had long light blonde hair with a soft whisper of a goatee and piercing amber eyes. For all that, his most striking feature was easily the Mark of Grima tattooed across his face, done in such a way that the top two "eyes" surrounded the man's real ones. He was like an evil Libra, and that was ironically fitting given his profession.

Over two thirds of those present fell to the ground in front of the man, but Mercer refused. He wasn't absolutely required to, and so he never did. The one act of defiance he was still capable of. This could have been enough of a provocation for Courtney, but he'd lost interest in him as his own superior neared the bar. "Hail his grace, scion of the Fell Dragon and Hierarch of District Twelve of Thirty. Hail Hierarch Twelve-of-Thirty."

New Ylisstol was a small town in the southwestern Ylissean continent, but Mercer wasn't a citizen of the Theocracy of Plegia. He lived in the Plegian Administrative Zone, a province of the Grimleal State. The entire world was now divided into just thirty such provinces, and each was governed by a Grimleal official, the Hierarch. Before achieving that rank, the official in front of Mercer now would have been a man like anyone else, but he'd given up his birth name along with other "superficial" things to serve Grima's will. Twelve-of-Thirty was his name now. It represented everything he was. This man was a tool of God. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Hierarch Twelve-of-Thirty was a by the book administrator who tolerated no dissent. It was never a pleasant experience for anyone involved in the rare moments he visited the town. "So…" He said in a disturbingly calm, almost melodic voice as he neared Conrad. "This is the impudent?"

"Yes, Hierarch." Courtney stated proudly as he held Conrad up by the collar, almost as if showing off a caught fish. "This is the little rascal right here."

The Hierarch placed his hands behind his back, sheathing his entire arms behind his cape, and stared Conrad down. "Conrad of New Ylisstol. You are twenty two days behind payment of the monthly tithe as of last audit. Your actions have been interpreted as heresy. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"W-with all due respect, milord-" Conrad stuttered. "W-why did a Hierarch come down here for just one man?!"

"Because you're special, Conrad." Courtney said mockingly. "You're the first person in this little dirt farming town to miss their tithing in two years. This place is usually pretty good, so a bad egg is gonna stink."

Conrad rubbed his hands together and seemed to make himself smaller. "Look, I-I just haven't been able to make ends meet lately. I need a little more time."

"And yet you can afford to go to bars?" Courtney responded.

Twelve-of-Thirty stuck his finger in the young man's face. "Be careful, child! When you lie to me, you lie to God!"

Courtney grabbed his collar again, this time shoving his head down. "Do we look like common thugs to you? Do we look like some gang bangers?" He tapped on the tattoo on his forehead.

"N-no, sir!"

"Who are we then?"

"Grimleal! You're Grimleal!"

Courtney smiled. "And who leads the Grimleal?"

"G-Grima."

"You're damn right boy! Is that a god you want to piss off?! Do you want to lie to our god?! He's a pretty beefy god!"

"I-I don't want to piss off God!" Conrad whimpered.

"Why don't you take the tithe seriously?!"

"I just need a little more time, Adjudicator! I'll get the money! I swear I just don't have it yet. I-I didn't even buy anything here! I just wanted to meet girls!"

Twelve-of-Thirty gave a dismissive glare. "Have you ever pondered if the sway such atavistic desires hold over your mind has weakened your fervor? Your purity in the six eyes of our lord?"

"I-I just need more time. Forgive me, Hierarch!"

Twelve-of-Thirty placed a hand on Conrad's head. The young man trembled, unsure of what was about to happen, and the Hierarch seemed to revel in it. "My child, God forgives… but man does not. Adjudicator, the town must learn from Conrad of New Ylisstol. Provide him with his edification."

Courtney grinned from ear to ear. He was a bandog off his leash now. "Of course, Hierarch."

Twelve-of-Thirty left the bar, the patrons rising again as he did, and Courtney turned to speak to the whole tavern. "We don't ask much from you people. We really don't ask much. The other chapters of the Grimleal aren't as merciful, you know. They use people in their experiments. There's a lot of nasty things you can do with dark magic, let me tell you. They hoard food from the people so that they can eat like kings. That does sound tempting to me. Do we do that to you people though? No! We have some respect for you all! All we ask is that you respect us back! All we ask is that you pay the damn rent, I mean, tithe on time! Do you all do it?! Yes, yes you do for the most part. I'll give credit where credit is due. This town is pretty good about paying on time, but there are still a few bad eggs." Courtney turned back to Conrad, who had sat back down. "Stand up straight when I'm talking to you, boy!" Conrad stood up from his bar stool. "Now hold out your hand!"

"W-what?" He asked.

"HOLD OUT YOUR HAND! Do it like we gonna shake hands, boy!"

Conrad reluctantly held out his hand. Courtney drew a tome, and energy materialized in his right hand. He shook hands with Conrad, forcing this magical energy against his skin, and Conrad screamed in agony as it burned him. Courtney smiled sadistically as he held Conrad's hand, and he only let him go after almost a minute. Conrad fell to the floor screaming. "If you make us have to come back here, Conrad, we're going to do much more than just burn your hand." Courtney turned to the rest of the people in the tavern. "And if the town starts giving us problems, then we're going to have to get Grimleal Enforcers down here. Trust me, they're a lot less forgiving than we are." The Grimleal Adjudicator left the tavern, and the patrons returned to their drinks. Only Conrad's daughter came to his aid, lightly and innocently tapping on her father while he sobbed uncontrollably. Mercer couldn't bear to see him whimper anymore, and he sighed as he walked over to Conrad and slowly helped him to his feet.

"Thanks, old man." Conrad struggled to say through his whimpering. Mercer looked down at Conrad's daughter. She couldn't have been older than four, and she didn't seem to understand the severity of the situation at all.

"This is your little girl, huh?"

"Y-yeah."

Mercer punched Conrad in the stomach, sending him back to his knees. "You have a little girl and you're chasing women instead of paying your rent?! Do you know what the Grimleal Enforcers would do if they got their hands on her?! They'd make an example of her to the whole town! Don't ever put your daughter's life in danger again!" Mercer angrily went back to the bar, retrieved his bottle, and then stormed out of the tavern.

"Shove off, old man!" Conrad yelled. "You're just a crazy old bastard! No one in this town really likes you, you know! Why don't you just lie down and die already?!"

"Believe me," Mercer muttered under his breath "Nobody wants that more than I do."

Mercer finished his bottle and angrily threw it away away as he stepped outside. "Damn it! I hate kumis."

"Then why do you drink it?"

Mercer turned to see the familiar face of a woman with unnatural light green hair. She wore loose fitting red robes and had her ears tucked away beneath her long hair. Nobody would suspect anything of it at a glance, but Mercer knew why she did it. Mercer hesitated for several seconds before responding, wondering if engaging with the woman was worth his time. "Because I can't afford anything else. Beer, wine, mead, spirits, it all got a lot more expensive now that nothing grows well anymore."

"Why don't you just stop drinking?"

"If I did that, the pain would come back."

"Drinking doesn't make your pain go away."

"What does that mean coming from you?!" Mercer snapped. "You don't know a damn thing about being human, Tiki."

Tiki smiled faintly. "You're right. I don't know what it's like to be human. I've tried to understand for thousands of years, but just the act of living for thousands of years only further distances myself from your kind." Tiki stepped closer to Mercer. "You get worse and worse every time I see you, Chrom."

"Don't call me that! That is not my name anymore!"

"Of course. You go by Mercer now. You like to think that Chrom died with the Shepherds all those years ago."

"Chrom is dead. I'm just a scavenger now."

"I know you blame yourself for what happened… Mercer. I know there isn't a soul in this world that hates you more than you do yourself. I know you think that you're a broken man." Tiki stepped closer to Mercer. For an instant it seemed like she was going to place her hand on his shoulder, but she paused when his glare grew more severe. "But I know there's still a hero in you."

"Let me die in peace."

"If death is what you really wanted, you would have taken that way out a long time ago. I know what you really want, Mercer… peace. I can give that to you."

"How many times have you come to see me since Grima won, Tiki?"

"I've lost count."

"At least twenty times. Each time you've asked me for something. You ask me for less and less as the years go by, but you're always asking for something. You wanted me to rebuild the Shepherds. You wanted me to stop Grima and the Grimleal. You wanted me to take up the Falchion again. You wanted me to fight again. Have I ever agreed to any of it?"

"No."

"I'm not a hero. I'm not going on some foolish quest to save the world. The Shepherds are dead because of me, Tiki. It's over. Whatever it is you're going to ask of me, just don't."

"I know that you refuse to resist the Grimleal anymore. I know that you swore to never pick up a sword again after the Shepherds were killed. Even if you did, I doubt you still have the will needed to perform the Awakening ritual. I know you won't help to defeat Grima, Mercer, but that's not what I need from you. I believe you when you say you won't fight anymore, but there is someone else who can."

"What?"

"There is another member of the royal family."

Mercer's tired face twisted with fury. "The royal family is dead, Tiki! Who could you be talking about?! Lucina, Lissa, Emmeryn, Owain, they're all gone! They've been gone for thirty years!"

"I know that, Mercer. There is someone I'd like you to meet, however."

"Who the hell could that be?"

Tiki turned towards an alley behind the tavern and waved. "Come on out now, Ophelia." A blonde woman wearing a thick robe stepped out of the alleyway. She looked at Mercer nervously, and she darted her eyes away when he looked back. "Don't be shy, Ophelia. Chrom is an ally." Mercer scowled at his old name, but he didn't bring it up. He watched as Ophelia slowly stepped forward. He shrugged at her, imploring her to get to the point. Tiki looked at Ophelia and nodded. "Take off your robe, Ophelia. It's okay." Ophelia slowly nodded back and removed her heavy robe, showing the revealing mage clothing underneath. The style and design of her clothes were reminiscent of what Plegian mages wore, but they were also much more brightly colored. Ophelia's clothing only drew Mercer's attention for an instant, however. His eyes were more attracted to a strange symbol on the woman's arm.

It was the same symbol that Mercer covered up with his bandages.

"What… what is this?!"

Tiki looked at the old man that had once lead the Shepherds in defense of human civilization itself. "She's like you, Chrom… very much like you."